Desire
by dark-hearted rose
Summary: [[COMPLETE!]] After the final lair scene, Meg runs after the Phantom. This story chronicles what unfolds. Lerouxesque Erik and ALW2004movie Meg. Rated M for some language, and content in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1: Beyond the Mirror

**yup, another Meg/Erik. I told you i was obsessed.**

**disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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_"Where perception is, there also are pain and pleasure, and where these are, there, of necessity, is desire." – Aristotle_

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chapter 1

She didn't know what possessed her to run after him, his discarded mask clutched tightly in her hand. But she did. Thankful tonight's had been a trouser role, she ran quickly up the steps, vaulting over items that stood in her path with the sounds of the mob raging behind her, like some grotesque ballet. She stepped over the broken shards of glass and sprinted down the dark, damp hallway he'd disappeared into, experiencing a sense of _déjà vu_; this wasn't the first time she'd been through a mirror, not knowing what lay ahead of her in the darkness beyond.

She soon slowed down her frenzied pace to a walk. She couldn't see ahead of her and was unsure of her footing; though the ground beneath her was level, she'd heard—and observed, from tonight's earlier performance—something or another about trapdoors…

She felt her cheeks flush at the thought of the performance. God, he'd looked so…so… Well, she'd seen him during the Masquerade at New Year's—who hadn't?—she'd caught glimpses of him in the rafters or in the hallways, but _nothing_ in her memory could compare to the way he'd been tonight. Oh, and his voice… Tonight, his aim had been seduction; and he'd succeeded.

She stopped in mid-stride, her whole body tingling, though with what she was not quite sure. _Oh, God, to just find him_…

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He stood, tense as a bowstring, lasso in hand. Someone had followed him; he could hear their loud, clunking footsteps, their seemingly heavy breathing. He waited, patiently, as the footsteps grew louder, closer to where he had concealed himself in a fork in the passage. His long, supple fingers caressed the rope lovingly; whoever had so foolishly chosen to disturb him in his grief would receive the full extent of his wrath, would soon feel his rope around their neck. Tonight, there would be no mercy. Not again.

Suddenly, the footsteps stopped, so close he could almost feel the heat radiating from the intruder's body. The breathing grew ragged. Now. Now was the time to strike.

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There was no warning. One minute, she breathed. The next moment, she couldn't. She struggled, but to no avail; soon, all she could think about was the biting on her neck, the searing in her chest as her lungs screamed for oxygen. She saw a pair of eyes, golden, glowing eyes in the darkness, then all went black as she lost consciousness.

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Of all the things he'd been prepared for, this wasn't one of them. He'd been expecting a man, one of the drunken, besotted members of the mob, but instead, it was a woman. No; she was practically a girl. _Like Christine_, his mind prompted.

He panicked. Was she dead? He had to check. He bore down upon her fallen body, quickly working his fingers between his rope and her flesh, finally pulling it off of her. He checked her pulse: by some stroke of luck, she was still alive.

Without a second thought, he hoisted the girl over his shoulder, moving quickly down the hall from whence he had come, not stopping until he reached his safe-haven of the moment, shut behind several secret doors.

He laid her on the cot in the far corner of the small room, examining her by the light of a single candle. She was breathing again, and there was an ugly red welt around her neck from where the rope had left its mark. Her skin was pale, but not so pale as to clash with the long, golden hair that now obscured her face. His gaze wandered, and he took in the sight of her lush curves and ample breast that refused to be hidden by her loose, flowing white shirt. He felt himself stir with remnants of desire from earlier, but pure ice chased away the heat as he turned her head and brushed back a lock of her hair to get a look at her face.

He stared in shock. He knew her! She was one of the ballet rats at the Opera; Marguerite, he believed her name was. Yes, that was it. Marguerite.

This revelation in itself was troubling. But why had she followed him? He refused to believe she'd come of her own accord. Some one had sent her, no doubt.

_Dammit, Erik, you should have left her to die. What happened to 'no mercy'?_

He left her and retreated into another corner, blowing out the candle, sitting in the darkness and brooding, mourning his loss, cursing his recent spurts of compassion, and listening to the sound of the girl's even breathing.

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**i sincerely appreciate all comments/questions/constructive criticism/angry shouts and brandishing of fist, but, please, no flames.**


	2. Chapter 2: Acquaintances and Thoughts

**Sorry this took so long to get out...you know how it is.**

**Many thanks to my three reviewers, phantomluver4ever1, Writer2TheEnd, and the spiffy anonymous reviewer, Anonymous. Thanks as well to those who read! I greatly appreciate it.**

**disclaimer: I still don't own anything.**

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chapter 2

She awoke to darkness. She sat up, almost as if in a dream, becoming increasingly aware of how painfully stiff her body was.

Dear God, what had happened? Where was she? And what was that noise?

…Someone was crying.

She stood, shaky at first, but she quickly regained her balance. She stepped blindly in the dark, her hands in front of her, until she reached what she believed to be a point close to whoever was crying. She stooped down and waited, gasped when a pair of glowing, golden eyes met her own. Everything came back in a rush and she felt close to fainting. She teetered, falling forward as a result of the dizziness and unsteady position she had assumed just moments before, her face crushing against fabric, arms around her, supporting her.

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He had reacted without thinking when she looked as she were about to swoon, when he'd seen that look of sudden realization and comprehension in her eyes. Now, with her head resting against his chest, he comforted her, reassured her, though the tears still stood in his own eyes.

"Who are you?" he heard her ask softly, obviously frightened and confused.

"I am whom you've been seeking, young Marguerite."

He expected her to draw back violently, prepared himself for the absence of warmth she'd brought just for a moment to his cold flesh, but that moment never came. Instead, she sighed deeply and—to his utter astonishment—buried her face deeper into his chest.

"It's Meg," she said. "Only my mother calls me Marguerite."

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_Oh, God, please stop_, he thought. _Please, please stop…_

It was a dream, he knew. Only a dream, and soon he would have to face himself, alone and forsaken…

She was in his arms, her head resting against his chest. He felt his heart rate accelerate. She was saying something to him.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, awkwardly pulling back. "I…I don't know what possessed me to do that…"

"No, it's…it's fine."

She sat back on her heels, looking down.

"Something is troubling you."

"You…you could have killed me, and yet…"

"I thought you were one of the mob members. When I'd realized my mistake, I couldn't leave you to die."

Her brow wrinkled in thought, as she turned her head in his direction. "How is it that you can see me when it's so dark?"

He gave a resigned sigh. "I've trained my eyes."

She impulsively reached up and stroked his face; her fingers were cold. He steeled himself as aftershocks of the unexpected contact coursed through him. Who was this girl, and what did she want from him?

"How long have you been living like this?" she murmured.

"Not long," he replied, trying to make light of the situation, his cynical humor dominating his doubt and uncertainty. "Fifteen years, more or less." He stood.

The first thing she noticed as he got to his feet was his height. He was tall, taller than she'd thought. But, then again, she'd only seen him from afar.

She wondered if Christine had ever seen him this close before last night…wait, _was_ it 'last night'?

"How long have I been here?"

His voice came from farther away now. "Two days," he replied. And then, she knew he was gone.

She picked her way back to the cot and sat on the edge, thinking. Two days…and no one had found them. Where were they? Were people still searching? She knew they were…he'd killed.

No, _murdered_.

But the word sounded so ugly; it didn't suit him at all.

_You hardly know him_, her mind retorted. _And remember…he almost killed you, too._

Reaching up experimentally, she brought her fingertips to her neck…and winced in pain.

Although she couldn't see it, she could feel the large welt from where the rope had choked her. She sighed. Yes, he had tried to kill her…but he'd stopped. It was then she knew that he wasn't a monster like her mother and so many others had made him out to be. He was human, one capable of coherent thought and compassion…and love. He was not one to be feared, but one that needed to be shown there was no need of fear.

He was a man, simply a man.

_But you already knew that_, her mind supplied again, and she blushed furiously.

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**please review.**


	3. Chapter 3: Searching

**first and foremost, I'd like to thank MJ MOD, for providing me with one of the main ideas for this chapter. **

**many thanks go to my reviewers: MJ MOD, phantomluver4ever1, Tansy, Writer2The End, Kyrene once Blood Roses, and Isah Underhill! much thanks to those who read as well. You guys make this all worth it!**

**disclaimer: Just because I write about it doesn't mean I own anything...**

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chapter 3

He couldn't help himself, and so, he fled. While there was only so much room a fugitive in hiding could have access to, he intended to make the most of it.

He wanders through the secret corridors, every nerve in his body strung taut, every one of his senses alert; he could almost feel the crushing weight of the seven stories of earth above him, wished he really could, like he had so many times before.

_At least I'd have some measure of peace_, he thought tartly, stopping short at the sound of several loud voices ahead.

Reacting as quickly as a loosed spring, he concealed himself in the shadows and behind a partition wall, taking his bearings. He soon realized he had managed to find himself in the very corridor he'd hidden in two nights ago…

"What the hell?!" exclaimed one of the voices. Erik winced; his hearing was sharp, and the echoes only made the yelling worse.

"What, Jean?"

"Look at this! The little shit was planning on killing her!"

"She was found in a wedding dress, you dumbass. He wasn't going to kill her; though I don't know why he had _that_…"

Erik smiled wryly; the looters had most likely found his coffin. Yes, he'd kept a bed, which he'd allowed Christine to use when he'd taken her the first time, but it had only been for show; he preferred the coffin.

"Inspector! Come look at this!"

Not looters, then.

_A search party._

Well, he'd avoided them before; he could do it again. Unless…

"That's what he sleeps in," he heard a woman's voice say, and his blood began to boil.

_Giry._

"Madame?" another voice said, presumably the inspector's.

"You heard me."

"But…he _sleeps_…?"

"Monsieur, if you would kindly stop with the pointless questions and help me find my daughter, as you are supposed to, I'd be very grateful."

_Her daughter?_ Erik wracked his brain, trying to come up with a mental picture of the girl. _Ah, yes…_

The blonde one…she and Christine had been practically joined at the hip. Now, what was her name again…?

_Marguerite_, his mind supplied, and then, he knew.

"_It's Meg… Only my mother calls me Marguerite."_

He cursed quietly. How could he have been so stupid as to forget that Meg was Giry's daughter?

It was perfectly ironic, of course. The girl had been one of the only people on earth to show him some measure of compassion, and now, her mother, the woman who knew all his secrets, was searching for her.

Frustrated, he brought his fingers up to massage his temples, suddenly realizing for the first time that he was unmasked.

He cursed again. If it weren't for the search party, he'd be free to search for his mask and to leave. If it weren't for the girl, there wouldn't be a search party in the first place.

…If it weren't for the girl…

_You should have just killed her._

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Meg hadn't been sure what to do. Not wanting to irritate him, she had been content to stay on her cot in the dark, waiting until he returned, but her hunger—she hadn't eaten for two days straight, after all—got the best of her. After a few minutes of fumbling blindly, she'd found a candle, lit it, and was now searching for food.

Absorbed in her task, she didn't hear him return.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he thundered at her. Startled, she jumped, spinning around to meet him.

"I—I was hungry—"

He waved her interjection aside. "Why didn't you tell me who you were?"

"I—I thought you knew!"

Angered past all hope of redemption, he shook her roughly by the shoulders. "Why are you down here? Who sent you? Your mother?"

She tried her best to keep tears of fright from springing to her eyes. She shook her head. "N-no, Monsieur!"

"Don't toy with me!"

"I'm not!"

"I said—"

"No, please! I swear, I came of my own accord!"

He stepped back abruptly, letting go of her. "What?"

"I came after you because I wanted to, not because anyone made me."

"But…how could you…?"

Unable to stand it any longer, Meg looked him, tears standing in her eyes, before fleeing towards the small sanctuary of the cot in the corner. In her haste, she knocked over the candle, pitching them both into darkness.

Bewildered and overcome by emotion, Erik sat in the darkness as he had that first night, listening instead to the stifled sobs of the girl in the corner.

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**please review! who knows...your comment might be the one that inspires me for the next chapter!**


	4. Chapter 4: Broken Revelations

**I apologize for not updating this sooner...the combined pressures of school and the surprising difficulty I encountered in writing this chapter took their toll. Hopefully the next shall come more easily.**

**Thanks so much to my wonderful reviewers: MJ MOD (you're welcome!), Lair Lover, Little Giry, Writer2TheEnd, Isah Underhill (hey, no problem), and my roundabout reviewer, phantomluver4ever1 (glad you liked it!). Keep them coming, guys! I love reviews, they totally brighten my day! (hint to those of you reading who have yet to review...)**

**disclaimer: I own nothing, except the writing, of course.**

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chapter 4

Meg cried. She hadn't wanted to, but she did. The reasons why didn't surprise her, either; a barrage of emotions had coursed through her as he'd yelled, primarily fear. Fear that he wouldn't be able to control himself and end up killing her as he'd originally intended, fear that they would be found. And then…a new fear, one that _did_ surprise: fear that he'd make her leave, now that he knew who she was. She'd known her mother had had dealings with him in the past…what if she'd done him some wrong? Would he hold a grudge? If anything could be inferred from his flare up of temper, that was it.

_How on earth could you want to stay with him?_ a part of her mind asked, and she had to admit that it had a point. But then, another, more secretive part of her, the same, she suspected, responsible for sending her here in the first place: _How on earth could I not want to stay with him?_

There was no denying it, then. No more outward expressions of fear and inward feelings of longing, as had happened when Christine was telling her of what had happened that first night she'd disappeared.

It was with these resolute thoughts that, exhausted and overwrought, she fell into a deep slumber.

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When she next awoke, she was afraid she'd died and moved on; she could see clearly, instead of being encased in darkness. Bleary eyed, she sat up, combing her fingers through her tangled blonde hair.

"Ah, you're awake."

She turned around to look at him. Not nearly as imposing as before, he stood a few feet away from her, wearing the same clothes that she recognized—albeit in a much more ravaged condition—from the fated performance. He was also wearing his mask.

"I…I have some food for you...you said earlier that you were hungry." He faltered for a second, intimidated by the depth of her gaze.

"Oh! Thank you," she said, now realizing that he was, indeed, holding a plate of sorts out in front of him, loaded down with some bread, cheese, and cold cuts.

He handed it to her, his hand accidentally brushing against hers in the process. He flushed at the sudden, unexpected contact, but she didn't notice it. He watched, amused, as she attempted to keep her manners intact and not devour the food all at once, but her hunger obviously won out, and soon she was finished eating.

"Thank you," she said again, handing the plate back to him. As he turned to put it away, she asked, "Aren't you going to eat something?"

"No," he said, and set the plate by a small basin in another corner.

_The mask_, she thought. _He doesn't want to remove it._

She wanted to do something about it.

Half thinking that she'd gone mad, she watched as he sat down at an improvised table. She walked quietly up to him from behind…and snatched the mask from his face.

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His animalistic snarl of rage had caused her to retreat hastily from him, shocked. He flew at her, eyes on fire in their sockets, his skeletal face contorted in anger, making him all the more frightening to behold.

Meg, however, was not frightened, not anymore. Once the original shock had worn off, she regarded him coolly, her back now against the far wall. He stood in front of her, his hands clenching into fists at his side, as though he wanted to strangle her, but could not bring himself to.

"Damn the insatiable curiosity of women!" he roared at her, and she flinched. "Do I frighten you, Meg? Do I?" And then his fingers circled around her wrists, pinning her to the wall.

She turned her face from him, closing her eyes, biting her lip to contain the yelp of pain she wanted to release so badly.

"Why don't you look at me, Meg? This is your doing, after all. Don't you like what you see?"

She looked at him, then to the porcelain mask she held tightly in her right fist. Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet his. "Yes," she breathed, then dropped the mask.

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His felt his heart stop when he heard the shatter. Wild-eyed, desperate, he released Meg, falling to the ground on his knees to caress the pale white shards.

Lost, he felt so lost without it. How could she be so cruel? How could she _dare_ sacrifice the only face he'd ever been marginally content with, how could she shatter his dignity so carelessly?

He looked up at her, tears flowing down his cheeks unchecked. "Why?" One word, whispered, broken.

She gazed at him for a moment, taking him apart with her eyes, before answering, softly, "You don't need it. Please get up." And she helped him to his feet.

"What do you mean?" he demanded, towering over her once more. "What do mean, I 'don't need it'? Look at me, just look at my face! I look like a goddam corpse! Why aren't you screaming, Meg, why haven't you fled from me in terror?! Christine…" and the rest was blotted out by a heartbroken sob.

"I apologize for everything that's happened to you, everything that Christine has done to you, but I am not Christine, and I am _not_ at all sorry that I broke your mask," she said. Drawing close to him, reaching up and gently wiping his tears away, she continued, "I stand by what I said earlier…you don't need it."

He looked at her, his face blotchy because he'd been crying, and sniffed, bringing a skeletal finger to wipe at what little he had of his nose. "Even now?" he asked, skeptical.

She smiled at him. "Even now."

"How can you?" he cried out, still unable to believe. "How can you stand seeing me…seeing this?"

She looked at her feet before hesitantly meeting his gaze once more. "Because," she said quietly, "because…"

"Yes?"

She took a deep, steadying breath, her eyes sparkling with tears. "I love you," she said, and placed her hand softly on his chest; she could feel the steady beating of his heart beneath her palm.

He looked away, at a loss for words, but it wasn't until their eyes locked once more, when he finally registered her hand resting lightly against his chest, that he knew.


	5. Chapter 5: Cares and Confusions

**Once again, I apologize for such a long wait...**

**Much thanks to the lovely reviewers: Little Giry (haha, I liked the rant), Kyrene, Writer2TheEnd (chuckles...), Isah, Tinuel (thank you SO MUCH for the critique!!), and R.A.Y. And, of course, the readers, without whom this story would be pointless. **

**I'm working on the next chapter right now, so let's see if I can get it out before Christmas...**

**disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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chapter 5

"What?" he asked, shocked, stepping back, away from this beautiful girl that had thrown his world into pure chaos.

Yes, she was beautiful, only someone mentally ill couldn't see that. Her beauty differed from Christine's; she had more grace about her, more confidence, more…

_Curves?_ supplied his treacherous mind, and he had to fight the instinct to blush.

But she, no matter how womanly her figure, was barely more than a girl. An innocent, pure, naïve little girl, one he'd watched from the shadows so many times before…

"Forget it," she said, bringing him out from the realm of memory and back into reality.

"I find it difficult," he said coldly, "to forget, when you've just gone and ruined my _face_."

"I—I'm sorry—"

"Liar! You just said you didn't regret breaking—"

"Regret, yes, but I am sorry—"

"_Damn_ it," he said, angrily advancing on her once more. "Damn it, damn it, _damn_ it! I knew I should have killed you…"

"Then why don't you?" she asked coolly, returning his stare measure for measure. "You've killed before; surely you can do it again?"

"You delight in taunting me, do you? You delight in driving me mad?"

"No. But I do _not_ back down in an argument."

Despite the fact that he was spitting mad, despite the fact that he didn't _want_ to, he felt a grudging admiration and respect towards her. Damn it all, _how_ was it that such a one as her could elicit such emotion in him? First anger, shock, admiration…he felt as if his nerves couldn't take much more, but he'd never betray the fact to a single soul that he never wanted it to stop. Wait, _what_?

"We are done here, I assume, Monsieur?"

"Yes," he snapped. "Go…get out of my sight."

Smiling thinly at him, she moved gracefully away, leaving the room; he supposed it would be to leave for good, but something spoke from within him on her behalf, causing him to realize that, no matter how much grief this girl ended up causing, she _did_ provide some measure of companionship…something, he knew, he desperately needed.

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She was tired. Tired, but worried, though both terms seemed to her to be understatements of how she truly felt.

It'd been three days. Three days of endless, pure, and complete hell. It was bad enough that her home, no, her _life_ had been destroyed by the raging fire of one man's passion, literally and figuratively, but for her daughter to have gone missing as well… It simply was far too much.

But she needed time to herself, time to _think_, time not consumed by sobbing ballet girls and incompetent policemen, leading her to make the decision to walk instead of taking a carriage. The cool, evening air did her some margin of good as she made her way quickly down the boulevard, walking cane in hand, her black dress billowing behind her.

She walked with purpose, hoping to reach some conclusion, garner some scrap of hope from the person, though not immediately responsible, who, in essence, caused all of this: Christine.

Checking the address from the scrap of paper in her hands, she mounted the steps and rapped the end of her cane sharply on the wooden surface of the front door of the small, yet marvelous, manor.

"Yes?" asked a servant, opening the door promptly.

"I've come to speak with the Vicomte and Mademoiselle Daae. It is of the utmost importance."

"Madame, I'm sorry, but I'm under strict orders—"

"Who is it, Danielle?" inquired a voice from within, one she recognized immediately.

The servant straightened her shoulders, fixing her with a glare before replying to the one inside, "A woman to see you, Monsieur."

"A—what on earth do you mean, Danielle?" came the voice in response, followed by rapid footsteps and the door opening wider to reveal the Vicomte de Chagny. "Madame Giry!" he exclaimed in surprise. "Please, come in, come in…"

It was her turn to glare at the servant before lightly stepping over the threshold and into the grand foyer of the house.

"What brings you here, Madame?" asked Raoul, showing her into a small sitting room branching off from the foyer.

"News of the worst sort," she replied tightly, but offering no more details. She sank stiffly, yet gratefully into an armchair. "Where is Christine?"

"In her room. Should I get her?"

"Yes. She should hear this."

"Very well. If you'll wait here for a moment…"

She sighed and slumped further into the armchair when he'd left, wishing she didn't have to deal with all these stupid pleasantries, not when time was so precious and she wasn't sure how much of it Meg had left, if any.


	6. Chapter 6: The True Measure of Worth

**chapter 6 before christmas, as promised. :D**

**first off, I'd like to thank phantomluver4ever1 (if you haven't read her stuff yet, it's quite good) and some of her phics for serving as light inspiration for this chapter. also, thank you to reviewers Writer2TheEnd, MJ, Maureen, LostBluePhantom (my new hero :D), and GerrysJackie; and, of course, all you readers out there.**

**Happy Christmas!**

**disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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chapter 6

It was hasty, she knew that. It was stupid, she knew that as well. He was a dangerous man, a criminal, capable of hurting her and of other unimaginable, unpleasant things…

Sighing in frustration, Meg leaned against one of the damp stone walls lining the dark hallway. If she knew all these things, then why on earth didn't she just leave? She'd be so much better off if she left, she repeatedly told herself. But, each time she did, a voice within her retorted, _Would he?_

She hadn't realized how much he'd come to mean to her. Her life had been hectic over the years, having to share the affections and attentions of her mother with a score of other girls, having to deal with the jealous whispers, the giggles, the threats… The only constants in her life had been dancing, and him. Albeit she'd never actually acquainted herself with him when she'd been little, nor had she cared to, but the rumors, the stories of the infamous Opera Ghost had always been there, sometimes for entertainment, at other times acting as a protective shield, a distraction from the hardships she'd had to face in her dealings with the other girls.

Being the youngest—before Christine had come, anyway—made her an automatic target for the bullies, the merciless, attention-seeking older ones. However, being the only daughter of the ballet mistress made her automatically "off-limits" to those wishing to inflict physical harm; so, almost as a compromise, they tortured her mentally instead.

She cried at first, but eventually the tears stopped and she learned to harden herself, to ignore their cruel taunting. She never complained to anyone—least of all her mother, for fear of reprisal if anyone had ever found out—but held it inside of her, dancing it off. She practiced voraciously, sometimes sneaking out of her dormitory late at night to dance on stage for hours at a time…always experiencing the odd sensation of being watched. She recalled, once, seeing a dark figure to one side of the curtain, but brushed it aside in her mind as tiredness, continuing to dance, attempting Pointe for the first time without help.

But now, as she stood in this dark, hidden hallway, she couldn't help but wonder…

When Christine came, everything changed. Meg, previously finding it hard to make friends among the ballet corps, found herself drawn to Christine immediately. Soon, they were hardly ever seen without each other; a day to Meg's night, the girl brought continual happiness and companionship, while Meg offered a solace and strength.

Yes, Christine was grieving the death of her father, and needed someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on. Unlike Meg, Christine had not had to fight for her dignity, and was still innocent and very weak. As a result, the two girls clung to each other, telling the other everything.

It was soon after that Meg first heard about the so-called "Angel of Music", and, as much as she wanted to believe, she couldn't. She'd learned over the years to question everything, to challenge everything and not back down in acceptance unless she was truly convinced of the truth.

And Christine's story seemed far too good to be true. An angel, sent by her father to teach her? It just didn't seem plausible. However, not wanting to crush her friend's hopes, Meg stayed silent.

That was almost a decade ago. Now, both Meg and Christine were teenagers, practically on the threshold of womanhood. In the years directly before, both had blossomed from awkward youths into "beautiful, graceful young ladies," as Madame Giry liked to say. And, it seemed, both had awoken to the world of men at nearly the same time.

Growing up in the Opera House, the girls had always been around men. But never before had they bothered to pay any attention, to truly _notice_.

It was about this time, when the girls were both fifteen, that Madame Giry had pulled them both aside one afternoon to give them "the talk". Meg's cheeks hadn't burned quite as much as Christine's when Madame Giry had described what could happen if a man and a woman found themselves alone together—having overheard some of the older girls discussing one particularly engrossing "conquest" in detail before then, she imagined she knew much more than Madame Giry thought she did—but it was still rather unnerving, embarrassing, and the like.

A year passed relatively without incident—she still snuck out to dance, still felt observed, but the shivers were now of a distinctly different sort—right up until the night of the Gala, the night of Christine's disappearance.

"He's not the Angel of Music, Meg," Christine had sobbed to her afterwards. "All this time…I can't believe he'd lie to me like that…"

"Hush, Christine," Meg said, trying to comfort her. "I'm sure he can't be as bad as you're making him out to be…"

"Oh, Meg, you weren't there, you didn't see him, his _face_…" She shuddered. "He seemed a completely different person after I took off his mask; before, he…he sang to me, sang the most beautiful song I'd ever heard and he, Meg, he—he _touched_ me, Meg." And she went on to describe what he'd done to her, how he'd led her deeper, further down the tunnel leading from her mirror, how he'd gently held her, how he'd run his hands over her, evoking in her such sensation as she'd never before known.

Meg listened to everything, outwardly playing the part of an outraged and shocked friend, inwardly fighting pangs of jealousy, and losing. What had Christine done to deserve such attention that she hadn't? Hadn't she worked so much harder than Christine had? Sure, Christine could sing, but Meg could dance, was the best in the ballet corps.

_Well, you're with him now_, she thought wryly, standing up straight from where she'd been slumping against the wall.

Yes, she was with him, and she'd already managed to provoke him into killing her almost three times now. But she didn't think about that, instead thought about arms catching her and supporting her in the dark, of hands pinning her roughly to the wall, of soft skin beneath her fingertips, a heart beating strongly against her open palm…

She reached up to touch the welt on her neck, smiling. _It was worth it_.


	7. Chapter 7: New Beginnings

**Well, I'm back! (cue screaming...) Anyway, hope your Christmas (or Hannukah, or Kwanzaa, or Winter Solstice, or whatever you celebrate this time of year) was as awesome as mine! I did have a freaky-weird dream last night, but if I told you guys about it, you wouldn't get it, so enough about that.**

**A humongous thanks to my four lovely reviewers: Maureen (or should I say...Christine? bwahaha!), MJ (_evil grin_...), Writer2TheEnd (only a friend? _grins_), and phantomluver4ever1! And all you readers out there, well...you know who you are (at least, I hope so...).**

**Oh, yes, I'm issuing a LANGUAGE WARNING for this chapter for ONE word...I detest using it, but it seemed appropriate for the situation and dialogue (_forlorn sigh _what's an authoress to do?)... So, if anyone gets offended, I sincerely apologize.**

**disclaimer: Alas, I own nothing. **

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chapter 7

_Was it worth it?_ thought Christine to herself as she listened to Madame Giry tell about Meg's disappearance. When push came to shove, was it truly worth it? Sure, she was away from _him_, safe, but now her best friend was missing, quite possibly as a result of the events of three nights ago. _It seems that everything has a price_, she thought bitterly, and sighed.

"But, the police, Madame, surely…?" Raoul was saying.

Giry sighed. "They couldn't find anything," she said curtly.

Perceptive as ever, Christine could see that her former-ballet-mistress-turned-surrogate-mother was weary, irritated, and—and this scared Christine immensely—_frightened_.

"Christine, did Meg say anything to you? Was she acting strange, or…or anything?"

"Nothing, Madame," she answered immediately; though something was, in fact, gnawing at her memory…

There had been that night, long enough ago for her to have forgotten about it, the incident random enough for her to have rendered it "trivial", but there it was all the same.

One night, a few weeks after the Masked Ball, some of the other girls had begun teasing Christine mercilessly concerning the attentions of, first Raoul, and then the so-called Opera Ghost. She'd decided to play along, though it annoyed her to no end, if only to ensure that they wouldn't do it again—which they most-assuredly _would_ if she offered any resistance.

The girls had been at the height of their taunting her about the Ghost when Meg walked in, and, once she realized whom they were talking about, began screaming angrily at the other girls, rebuking them for poking fun.

"What, Meg?" said one, a sassy tart by the name of Jammes. "The Phantom start fucking you too?"

"Yes, tell us, Meg," jeered another, a sickly-skinny redhead named Adele. "How is he, your lover? I saw how you looked at him at New Year's."

Meg blushed furiously at that, sending the other girls into fits of hysterical laughter; they looked as if they were going to continue their sport, but Christine grabbed Meg by the hand, saying quietly, "Come on, let's go," and leading her from the dormitories, down several hallways, and finally into the small chapel.

There, a stunned Christine held Meg as she quietly cried, seemingly for the first time since they'd met; Meg had never before betrayed any sign of weakness, had handled the other girls' teasing with an apathetic coolness Christine found remarkable, had always been so strong.

She'd always assumed her friend's tears to be the result of commingled anger and embarrassment, but now, sitting as she was in this room with Madame Giry distraught over Meg's sudden disappearance, she had to wonder…

"Madame Giry, do you have a place to stay?" said Christine, truly noticing for the first time how worn and weary the woman looked.

"What? Oh, yes… I'm renting out a room at a small inn across the street from the Opera."

"Raoul, could she stay with us?" she asked, turning to look at him.

"Christine, that won't be necessary—" Giry began.

"Nonsense; you shouldn't be alone, not at a time like this."

"But—"

"Please, Madame, I insist. You and Meg are like family…it's the least Raoul and I could do."

Raoul nodded, standing up from his chair and walking towards the door. "Christine, I'll tell the servants to get a guest room ready, I'll be right back."

"All right," she replied, waiting until he left the room to reach over and take Madame Giry's hands in her own. "We'll find her, don't worry," she said gently, tears threatening at her eyes. "We'll find her…I promise."

-----

She was a long time in coming, and he began to wonder whether or not she'd left; when he heard footsteps, though, he felt a flood of relief.

"H-hello," he said timidly as she entered the small room.

She looked at him, puzzled, shocked at the fact that he was talking to her. "Hello," she replied gently, warily, sitting down at the edge of the cot in the corner.

"May I?" he asked, approaching; surprised, she nodded her assent and he sat beside her.

"I—I'm so sorry—"

He held up a hand to silence her. "I've managed to, ah…somewhat 'forget' about it, as you advised, though I do have a question; a few, actually."

She looked at him expectantly, and he continued, "Do I frighten you?"

"No, not at all," she replied.

"Not even a little?" he said, causing her to smile.

"I'm sorry, but…no."

"No need to apologize, I was only curious. Second…why did you follow me?"

_Oh, God, he's going to make me leave_, she thought, and looked at her feet. "I…I'm not sure why; it felt like the right thing to do, at the time."

"You regret it?" he asked sharply.

She snapped her head up to look him square in the eyes. "I'm not in the habit of regretting any of the choices that I make."

He felt intimidated by the depth of her gaze, but held firm. "One last question, Meg."

"Yes?"

"I…I realize that I've made many mistakes since you've been here and…I'd like to ask…will you allow me to start over, Meg?"

She smiled warmly at him, sending an inexplicable series of shivers down his spine, and said, "Of course. And…please allow me to start over as well." She stood then, and, curtseying charmingly—despite the fact she wasn't wearing a skirt of any kind—continued, "Monsieur, I'm Meg Giry. And you…?"

He stood. "My…my name is…Erik," he said quietly, and, surprised at his boldness, he gently grasped one of her hands and brought it to his skeletal lips, placing on it the shadow of a kiss before returning it to her.


	8. Chapter 8: Of Philosophy and Art

**hello, all!**

**hope you like this...oh, and I believe some thanks are in order: **

**to my lovely reviewers, MJ (i think the grin was because of something you said in the review of that last chapter...oh, yes, that bit about Erik being interested in Meg), my psycho sister, and my hero, who is neither lost nor blue...at least, i hope not...the blue bit would be cool, but i don't think being lost would be very fun...lost _sanity_, though... :D**

**and to tango1 and her amazing story "A Solo for the Living" (on this site and in my favorites, if you'd like to check it out) for giving me some inspiration regarding the occupation(s) of Meg's father.**

**oh, and, to clarify a question that arose with last chapter: Raoul and Christine are _not_ (I repeat, NOT) married, she's just staying with him because she has nowhere else to go...and it's not like they're sleeping together, or anything, she's got her own room.**

**disclaimer: I own nothing...except your mind and emotions as you read this :P**

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chapter 8

Her world, it seemed, had transformed into a complete paradox, the most beautiful paradox in the entire universe. Could it really be that the notorious, masked, frighteningly nameless criminal of before was truly the same man standing in front of her, now a considerate, maskless gentleman called Erik? And, how was it possible for his incredibly cold, delightfully delicate touch to send such powerful, surging shockwaves of heat all throughout her?

It just didn't make sense.

"Meg? Are you all right?"

"What? Oh…yes…I'm sorry, I got distracted…" She paused, trying to collect her thoughts. "So, ah, now that we've, um…achieved…"

"A new start?" he said, trying his best not to smile.

"Yes, a new start…I…I was just curious…how did you come to be here…Erik? At the Opera, I mean?" Dear _God_, why couldn't she get a handle on herself? She thought, perhaps, by using his name, she could control this frightening, terribly _carnal_ attraction building inside of her, but it achieved the opposite effect, causing her cheeks to burn and her breath to become short.

He was looking at her peculiarly. "Meg, you look ill…"

"No, no, I'm fine, really."

"…If you're sure…"

"Yes," she breathed. "I am."

-----

Erik spent the rest of the evening—as well as the better part of the following day—answering Meg's question. It surprised him immensely that he was able to relate the tale of his past so freely, let alone to her, whom he'd practically just met less than a week ago, but he spoke without reservation, hoping that maybe, just maybe, by going over everything again, he'd be able to figure out just where he'd gone wrong.

"You _carved_ out that whole cavern? All by yourself?" Meg had exclaimed after he'd reached the part in his narrative when he'd first become intimately acquainted with the caverns beneath the Opera.

"No, you misunderstand me," he said. "The lake, the caverns…they were already here, created by Nature. Nature, however…well, She needed a little assistance."

"To attain perfection?" she asked shrewdly, causing him to start in surprise.

"How—how did you know…?"

"I've noticed that about you. You…" She stopped mid-sentence, flicking her gaze up to look him full in the face. "It seems to me that you like the idea of immersing yourself in flawlessness."

He'd caught the sudden movement of her eyes and finished bitterly, "Because I myself am so flawed."

"That's—that's not what I meant."

"And yet, in essence, that's _exactly_ what you meant."

"No. Listen to me for a moment. Perhaps…perhaps beauty was _meant_ to be…well, 'flawed', as you put it."

"Go on," he said, intrigued.

She became flustered at the intensity of his gaze, but she continued, "Well, I mean…isn't Nature supposed to be the complete epitome of beauty? For example…all of the great Masters have tried to capture the essence of Nature in their works, but…"

"They've never succeeded," he whispered. He cleared his throat, looking away from her for a moment before focusing on her once more. "But how would you know of the Masters, Meg?"

"When I was little, my mother used to make me read for an hour each day out of her library." She wrinkled her nose, almost in distaste. "But the only books she had were the Bible and a few volumes on art she'd saved from after my father died. He…he was an amateur painter. Mother used to tell me stories of how, before they were married, he'd come to rehearsals and just sit and sketch her while she danced.

"Dancing is so important to her…for her, it's not merely a form of exercise, or a superfluous, yet necessary part to an opera; it's an art…the purest form of art possible, because one uses their whole body to communicate emotion and expression, just how Nature meant it to be.

"She expected so much of me when I was little…she wanted me to become a prima ballerina, like she'd been before she married my father, and had me. I constantly felt as if I wasn't doing enough for her, so, sometimes, I'd sneak out at night and dance—"

"I know," he said, interrupting her, surprised at how vivid the memories suddenly were to him.

"You…you _know_?" she asked, before gasping as comprehension gripped her. "You _did_ watch me! I knew it! I felt you, your presence…"

"Yes, I often wondered what a young girl such as yourself—knowing full well the stories of the Opera Ghost—was doing up at such an ungodly hour of the night."

"Why did you become the Opera Ghost?" she asked suddenly, throwing him off the balance he'd so recently achieved.

"I became enamored with the idea," he replied finally. "It was a gradual process, I assure you."

"But…why have the idea in the first place?"

"Someone—one of the stagehands, most likely—heard me singing down here…the story spread, and I decided that it'd be in my best interest if I kept it going; that way, no one would be likely to come across me on accident."

"A matter of survival," said Meg skeptically.

"If you want to phrase it like that, then, yes."

"Sing for me."

"I…I _beg_ your pardon?"

"What were you singing to make people think you were a ghost?" she asked, curiosity glimmering in her eyes as she looked at him.

"A number of things, none of which I am about to sing for you," he replied coldly, making to leave.

"No, wait, don't go," she said, instinctively reaching out and grabbing his arm.

He froze.

"I didn't mean to offend you…I won't ask it again, but, please…"

"A-all right, all right," he said, somewhat shakily, resuming his seat next to her. She hadn't let go of his arm.

"Erik…"

He looked at her, realizing with a start that their faces had only about a foot of space between them…the distance slowly shrinking with each passing second.

With a sudden, deliberate wrench attributed to the combined efforts of his head and upper body, he pulled away, looking at his feet, breathing hard and shaking. And, from what he could hear, he surmised that Meg was in much the same condition.

"We need to get out of here," he said quietly, looking around the small, dimly-lit room with commingled distrust and distaste. "The sooner, the better."


	9. Chapter 9: Dark Homecoming

**a really (really really REALLY) short chapter...the sort that's supposed to whet your appetite/annoy the heck out of you. :D**

**thanks to: MJ (who again gave me an idea for this a while ago through a review, thanks!), Writer2TheEnd, phantomluver, Maureen, Sarela Jade (thanks for replying to my reviews, it was very nice of you), and my lost blue phantom friend! and you all better thank/check out Sarela because it's her review that caused me to update this so soon...and because her work (though but newly-discovered by me) is excellent.**

**disclaimer: Please don't sue me, I own nothing.**

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chapter 9

She was anxious, she was overwrought. She'd long lost all sense of time as numbness settled over her, cloaking her, concealing her thoughts and emotions as she'd never before been able to alone. A week, a month, two? She had no idea.

She was bitter, she was frightened. But she couldn't stop; she had to continue searching. When the police hadn't been able to find any evidence, any sort of clue, vowing they'd continue searching but secretly crossing their fingers behind their backs, giving it up as a lost cause, she refused to believe them. Though each day spent searching was a day further from her wedding, she was consumed with the task, feeling wholly responsible for the disappearance.

And it truly was a "disappearance" in every sense of the word. It was as if all trace of Meg had been totally wiped from the face of the Earth.

But Christine knew better.

That's why she was here, in this carriage, alone, staring out at the chillingly familiar surroundings as she was inexorably drawn towards her final destination.

She'd been avoiding it, but the memories constantly haunted her. At first, she'd voiced her fears and thoughts to Raoul, and he sympathized with her, always taking her into his arms, despite the hurt that she knew he must be feeling each time she mentioned…

That's why she'd stopped. Sweet, kind Raoul didn't need anymore torture, not after all he'd been though, all he'd suffered, all for her, all to get her back. She felt guilty.

That's also why she'd repeatedly offered herself to him. She felt as if she owed him something, anything, always conscious of the fact that the day she could finally be with him, as sanctioned by the Church, was definitely not any time in the near future. But he always refused, saying he couldn't possibly disgrace her, _defile_ her in such a manner, that he was content to wait, that time would make it infinitely sweeter than if they hadn't held back.

Now, she wondered whether _he_ would have refused; he, the one constantly in her thoughts, always looming in the back of her mind, resurfacing with the darkness, a bitter aftertaste of emotion and memory.

The carriage came to a stop, and she got out, pausing, hesitating only for a moment before making her way quickly up the ash-stained, neglected, yet still magnificent front entrance of the Opera Populaire.


	10. Chapter 10: Found, Yet Lost

**I spoil you guys.**

**thanks to: phantomluver, and Maureen**

**disclaimer: I own nothing.

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chapter 10

She reached the doors quickly, looking around her warily at the dusky surrounding streets before tugging the door open and slipping inside. It closed behind her with a muffled but ominous _boom_.

The first thing she registered was the cold. Then came the smell; the pervasive smell of burnt, of ashes, even of decay. She stared in awe; she'd never seen the front foyer clothed in such darkness before. Her small, feeble steps echoed hugely in the morbid splendor that surrounded her on all sides, and she had an overwhelming memory of a place very similar to this one, encased in darkness, in damp, but several levels below…

She shook her head, sending her auburn curls bouncing, trying to clear her thoughts. But it was simply no use. As if the phantoms of memory had drawn a sudden, perverse strength at her return to their birthplace, they refused to be held back, suffocating her with all manner of sight, and sound, and smell, and _touch_…

It took all of her strength to take another step forward, towards the grand staircase, thinking upwards, always upwards, neutralizing the constant pull at the center of her being dragging her down and back into the crushing, beautiful abyss of his domain.

She placed a pale hand on the banister, noting the substantial cloaking of silt and ash against the once-shining gold and the trembling of her fingers. She drew a deep breath, despite the horrible smell, and took another step forward, her small shoe making a single imprint on the marble, almost as if she were walking on sand.

A gentler, more amiable wave of memory overcame her then, that of her father, and his ever-singing violin; of Raoul, rescuing her renegade scarf from the ravages of wind and sea…and she clung to them, drawing strength as she made her way slowly, grandly up.

She wasn't sure what she searched for. All she knew was that Meg _had_ to be alive.

-----

About an hour later, exhausted, hungry, and disconsolate, Christine emerged from the drafty entombment of the Opera House to the freedom of the streets. Sighing, she sat down on the uppermost step, resting her elbows on her knees and her face against her fists, thinking.

She hadn't found anything. Any sort of clue, any sign of life; nothing whatsoever.

A group of people, laughing gaily, caught her attention as they moved down the street. They looked to be of the upper class; they certainly were dressed as such…she could almost hear the rustling of the ladies' skirts, the crisp _swish_ of the gentlemen's evening clothes as they moved down the boulevard, a remnant of the splendor this district had once been, the huge stone monolith of the Opera the crowning pinnacle.

That's when she saw them.

She hadn't quite noticed when the two figures had joined the group of aristocrats, but they were now breaking ranks, quietly and stealthily, walking quickly up the street, right past her. One of the figures—a tall, abnormally lanky man dressed in evening clothes and a widely-brimmed hat—had no problem fitting in with the crowd he'd just emerged from, but something…something about the other…her swift, quiet, graceful movements…the hem of the tattered-looking skirt that brushed against the ground, almost as if too big for her…the hair, the long, blonde hair that glimmered in a sudden patch of moonlight as she moved, trying her best to keep up with the man, now several paces ahead—

"Meg!" she cried, shattering the air with her incredulous, joyful cry. She watched as both figures stopped dead in their tracks, the first soon resuming his speedy clip up the street, fading into the shadows, leaving his companion standing alone.

She stood then, sprinting down the steps and up to Meg, catching her friend in a tight embrace, weeping.

"Oh, God, Meg," she sobbed, not daring to let go. "We were so worried…don't _ever_ do that again, please, promise me…"

"Christine, Christine, calm down," Meg said, ever the practical, solid one, not to be swayed by emotion; she sounded tired, though, as if strained…

"Oh, Meg," said Christine again, now untangling her arms from her, backing up a little, but not much. "Meg, where _were_ you?"

Even in the dim light, Christine could tell that Meg's expression underwent a rapid shift from weariness, to ecstasy, to severe disappointment. "I…I don't really feel like talking about it, Christine. Perhaps…perhaps later…"

"Oh, of course, Meg, I'm sorry…I should have—oh, we need to get you home, your mother was worried sick…I'll call a cab—"

"No, walking is fine," said Meg; the prospect of being holed up in a cab with her overly-enthused friend was not a bright one. At least on the streets, she'd have some measure of peace, of freedom…

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm fine, I swear."

"Oh, Meg, I'm so glad you're back…" she said, and the pair of them started up the street, leaving the silent Opera House behind them.


	11. Chapter 11: Confusions and Cares

**here it is, folks. chapter 11.**

**a big, ginormous thank you to: MJ (er, no, Mme. Giry wasn't dead...), hero sista (_winks_), Maureen, Writer, and Sarela (_laughs_ you're very welcome...don't worry, it was all very well-deserved, I promise) for your kind reviews! and, of course, all you readers! _cue wild applause from my neck of the woods._**

**ALSO...it has recently come to my attention (ahem, _Maureen_) that I'm being somewhat of a "prude", as it were, when it comes to my rating; in other words, that this story is not living up to the "Mature" rating. well, I'm keeping the rating as is, for reasons you shall (hopefully...it depends on what I want to do with this) see soon, possibly as early as next chapter. so there. _sticks out tongue_. **

**just be patient...it'll get naughty soon. _evil grin_**

**disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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chapter 11

It had been simple. He, along with her help, of course, had been planning it for nearly a month.

But nothing—nothing in Heaven, Earth, or Hell—could have prepared him for this.

"Meg!" a voice had shouted out. A sweet, beautiful voice. A voice he knew very well.

He stopped mid-stride, cursing under his breath. His plan was ruined, they were exposed. He turned his head slightly, looking back at Meg, but she shook her head, mouthing at him to go. So he did, disappearing into the shadows, away from Christine.

Never in his life had he thought he'd be able to willingly walk away from her.

_But who said anything about "willingly"?_

So, as soon as he rounded the street corner, he stopped, and watched.

Her graceful form sprang up, her hair flying behind her in wild, glorious abandon as she embraced the other. She was weeping, and it tug at his heart to see her in such a state, vivid memories of that goddamned night bearing down swiftly upon his heart, like ravenous birds of prey. She backed away ever-so-slightly, gently, still not allowing herself to be consoled…he imagined what an ecstasy she must be in, to have her friend returned, safe, unharmed…

She stiffened, her shoulders straight, her face in shadow—like his. She said something, sending the other into a series of tumbling apologies, then shook her head, sending her hair into a beautiful ripple of movement down her back, a cascade of flowing silver tinged with moonlight…

He closed his eyes, breathing hard, trying to regain some semblance of control. He waited a few moments, opening his eyes—she was gone, a figment of imagination.

A dream.

One of the best he'd ever known in his nightmare of a life.

-----

She closed her eyes, leaning her head against the feather-soft pillow, pulling the blankets up and over her head. God, it felt so good to be sleeping in a bed again.

But at what price? She sat up, looking around the room, her eyes so accustomed to the darkness.

But it just wasn't "darkness" without him.

She'd come so close. So close…

They'd been working on it for over a month, engineering it, going over each and every miniscule detail. She would help him escape—from the law, from France, from Europe altogether—and, for her help, she would be allowed to go, too.

"Only," he'd said, "if you keep up with me."

And she'd been doing so well, until…

She was glad to see Christine, she really was. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed the other girl's companionship until that moment when she'd seen her.

But, out of the corner of her eye, she watched as another sped away from her.

She'd sent him away. She'd sent him away…

How could she have been so stupid? The odds against her ever seeing him again were slim to none, with sharp emphasis on the "none". Why, then, didn't she hold him back? He'd elected to wait for her, she'd seen that much in his eyes as he looked at her, panic blooming in her heart as she heard the syllables of her name ring out through the dark street…but she'd sent him away.

_Stop being so selfish_, something within her chided. _You should be thankful. He's safe now, he's far away, and he won't ever be caught; all thanks to you._

Sighing, she settled back down in her bed, silent tears sliding down her cheeks, her only solace and comfort coming from the fact that he was finally free.

-----

_All thanks to her._

The air was cool and sharp, the night sky illuminated by the full moon overhead as he moved swiftly through the countryside, following the banks of the river Seine to his ultimate destination of a ship casting off from the small port city of Le Havre.

_All thanks to her._

He paused, listening to the symphony of the night, the music of the crickets and the frogs working together to form a swelling harmony. How often had he tried to capture such music, such perfection, on paper? How often had he sat, frustrated, at his organ, going over the music swelling from inside his twisted skull, striving to reach such a beautiful, melodious harmony?

"…_isn't Nature supposed to be the complete epitome of beauty?"_

He shook his head, trying to get the voice, _her_ voice out of his mind, but to no avail.

Blast it all, she wouldn't leave him alone.

Confused, he looked towards the river. The moonlight shone on the surface, the water moving swiftly downstream, stained the color of mercury by the cold light of the celestial orbs above his slim, equally-cold form.

"_I'm not in the habit of regretting any of the choices that I make."_

He stood, motionless, on the bank for a long time, contemplating the water beneath him, and the voice within him.

"Nor am I," he whispered finally, and slowly, cautiously, turned his skeletal face towards the glistening city of Paris once more.


	12. Chapter 12: Shadowy Seduction

**thanks to reviewers Writer, Hero Sis, anonymous, phantomluver, Maureen, Sarela, and MJ; also, much thanks to readers, as well as to Sarela (yes, again) and trueurbanite's lovely phic "Retribution" for serving as light inspiration for the events of this chapter.**

**PLEASE note that a good chunk of this ensuing chapter is not only sexual in nature, but also quite dark; if you're not of the proper age to be reading such material, please don't. keep in mind, however, that it's your own choice if you continue. other than that...I hope you enjoy; this chapter was a definite challenge for me, but I'm quite proud of the way it turned out; it's also significantly longer than any of the others so far...four-and-a-half pages on Word instead of the standard two.**

**disclaimer: I own nothing.

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chapter 12

She couldn't sleep. She tried everything she could think of, but still she tossed and turned.

At first, she attributed the restlessness to the fact that her body was now accustomed to sleeping in that small cot several stories below, but, deep within her, she knew it was something else altogether.

But, oh, the embarrassment of such an admission! How could she ever say she had any margin of self-control, how could she…well, how could she even call herself a Christian if she gave in to such sin?

For she knew _exactly_ what this was, what her entire being was consumed with.

_Erik._

She knew it was wrong; she didn't do such a thing like this often. But how could she deny the incredibly insistent cry of her body?

It was _her_ body, after all. She could do what she wanted.

…Couldn't she?

-----

His silent trek back to Paris was quick and uneventful; even boring. As the hour was late and he wasn't inclined to spend the night out-of-doors, he stopped at a small inn on the outskirts of town, first removing his conspicuous evening coat and pulling his hat down so his face was totally engulfed in shadow before entering the building.

He secured a room for the night and immediately headed upstairs, ignoring the disgruntled mumblings of the landlord at being awoken by his late arrival.

In a few moments he was in his room, closing and locking the door behind his slim form as he entered, tossing his hat and evening coat on the bed in the corner nearest to him. Next, he examined the room, not bothering to light a candle; what use did he have of candles when he'd spent his whole life in darkness?

It was rather small, but not cramped, and sparsely furnished; a small table, a chair—and the bed, of course—along with a pedestal on which stood a porcelain basin and pitcher filled to the brim with cool water for freshening up. And, on the wall opposite him stood a dark, silent doorway, leading to what he could only assume to be the water closet.

Cautiously, still not taking any chances, he approached the pedestal in the far corner, still throwing his glance about, waiting for any sort of movement…

Nothing. It was quiet, still; not even the sound of scampering rodents broke the peace.

Satisfied, he poured some of the water in the basin and loosened his neck tie, unbuttoned his shirt, and scooped some of the water up, splashing it gently on his ghastly face. _Even phantoms need cleaning_, he thought with a smirk, bringing a second round of water to his face, starting slightly as a few drops slid down his neck and onto his exposed chest.

-----

She kept her body stiff and straight as she lay on her back, biting her lower lip, closing her eyes, anything to keep the thoughts, the pure wall of feeling at bay. So far, it wasn't working.

She was slipping, she knew it. It was during times such as these that she wished her faith stronger, her self-control greater, her wants weaker…or did she?

Her breathing came quicker now, her heart rate sped up as a deep, eternal war waged within her, a fierce battle betwixt the mighty forces of spirit and flesh.

The brackish taste of blood brought her back to her senses for just a moment; she'd been biting her lip so hard, her teeth must have pierced the skin. She traced her tongue over the soft arch a few times before bringing her fingers up to check if the bleeding had stopped.

Almost unconsciously, as if it had a mind of its own, her thumb stroked her cheek, lightly, gently, and it was in that moment that she stopped fighting.

-----

Having reached some semblance of cleanliness, his face still damp from the cool water, he shed his shirt and pulled back the blankets of the bed, examining the sheets, running his hand over them. Aside from the fact that it seemed that they had been a bit too starched, the linen was clean and fresh; a rare commodity he'd seen in an inn of this repute only a few times in his life. Satisfied, he removed his shoes and climbed into bed, pulling the coarse woolen blankets over his body, engulfing himself in a warmth which soon grew nigh unbearable to his naturally cold frame.

He kicked the blankets off, suddenly bitter. What had he done so wrong to be born such an abomination? Perhaps the sole purpose in his existing was to serve as a punishment, a torture to the human race. After all, he mused, drawing a savage delight in such a thought, humans deserve it, being the degenerate creatures they were.

But something was nagging at him now; surely, not _all_ people deserved such a fate…

His breathing grew ragged, thinking of the events of the evening, one such person undeserving of the constraints and confines of this world coming to the forefront of his mind. He closed his eyes, heart pounding in its cavity, and he whispered her name, a faint caress of air over his meager excuse for lips, an adoring prayer of veneration and devotion and heartache.

"_Christine_…"

-----

Her palm was resting full against her cheek now, the touch comforting, but not assuaging. Taking a deep breath, almost to steady herself, Meg swung her hand down to the length of her neck, cold fingertips brushing against warm skin, and she shivered. She explored the contours, at one point her hand fully covering the front half, and she felt the curious sensation of air rushing constantly in and out of her windpipe, but she did not concern herself with that for long, thinking about something else.

The horrible red welt had long disappeared; though now, lying as she was in the darkness, she felt as if it were still there, only deeper, under the skin, burning its way into her, like a brand. Not resisting, she closed her eyes, reveling in the thought, in the feeling, and her hand traveled lower, tracing the curious hollows of her collarbones, the dip where her neck met her chest. Resting her fingers there, she felt the constant, rapid beat of her pulse, and, all prior reservations abandoned to her passion and memory, soon dragged her fingers from their resting place, continuing their downward journey.

-----

With a gasp, she sat up like a shot, breathing hard. She ran her hand through her hair, the last remnants of the dream fading, but the feeling she was being watched suddenly pervasive. Paranoid, she looked around, but a split second later realized that she was safe, that he couldn't possibly be watching her…

Earlier, when Meg had been telling her story, she'd pressed her hands to her mouth in horror as her friend described how she'd run after him the night of the Opera disaster, how, in his madness, he'd tried to strangle her. When asked why she didn't leave when she'd first come to, she said that she couldn't bring herself to leave him, much as she wanted to, and resolved to stay until he let her go.

"He finally let you go, then?" inquired Raoul, shaken to the core by the tale, but the only one at the moment able to bring himself to speak coherently.

Meg looked down in her lap before slowly shaking her head. "He…he's…dead. He's dead."

Madame Giry had drawn a painful breath at that, but immediate relief flooded Christine's veins. Free, she was finally free…

But, why, then, if she were truly free, did he and his voice still haunt her?

For he did; in fact, in her dream, the very dream she'd just awoken from, she'd seen him once again, she'd felt his cold, horrifically skeletal fingers against her face, his terrible visage…

She shook her head, trying to purge the images, the sensations, away from her mind, a different picture presenting itself to her now.

Meg had said he'd died. Who, then, was that tall, strange man she'd seen on the street earlier? Could it be…?

But no. Meg had no reason to lie; if he were still alive, she would have told them.

Reassured, but only slightly, she climbed out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown, and left her room silently, in search of the one who would offer her not only the reassurance that she was safe, but true, undying love as well.

-----

She stopped when her fingers encountered the low neckline of her nightgown, common sense and mind giving her a moment of pause. Overwhelmed with sensation, however, she continued, her hands now stopping at her breasts.

Her breath came in short gasps as she ran her fingers over the thin fabric of her nightgown, the soft, sensitive skin hidden beneath reacting immediately to the touch. Frantic now, her nerves having a field day, she grabbed at the twin pieces of flesh, imagining his hands in place of her own, moaning softly as sensation danced its way down, only to settle and smolder all the more in the secretive darkness between her legs.

-----

_She was staring at him, the utmost trust in the beautiful depths of her doe-brown eyes as he led her further, inexorably deeper into the unfathomable, black abyss of his underground kingdom. It was in this moment that he knew, that he relived all over again just why he'd fallen for her as hard and fast as he had, and it was all he could do to keep himself from sweeping her up and whisking her away._

_But he knew deep within him at some level of his unconscious, even then, before the trouble had started, that she would not—she could not—be his. The fool who had come up with that completely crack-brained saying "opposites attract" could not have been any more wrong; there was a reason the entities of night and day were not allowed to touch, to blend together in harmonious existence._

-----

All coherent thought had long been replaced by pure, lustful, animal instinct as she kicked the heavy blankets off of her, her hands simultaneously flying to the hem of her nightgown and jerking it up, exposing her legs to the cool air of the room, her greedy fingers working at the band of her pantalets, anything to get to the warm, sensual flesh, searching—

She had to fight the instinct to cry out as one of her index fingers lightly caressed the secret, throbbing source of her womanly pleasure, and she thrust her hips up, smashing her hand flush against the soft lips sugar-coated with miniscule spirals of coarse blonde hair, her fingers working, caressing, manipulating, anything to get her to the peak her body so desperately hungered for.

-----

_Granted, there were exceptions, thresholds where—for however briefly—the forces of light and darkness would mesh to form a sort of twilight, a neutral grey area, but what were the chances of his finding the one, more perfect than his already-perfect Angel?_

_So, he clung to her, both literally and figuratively, his heart fit to burst as he watched her sleep on his bed, her chest rising and falling with each gentle breath, mirroring the rollercoaster of his turbulent emotions each time he was with her. Even when she'd exposed him for the monster that he was, shattering his illusion of beauty and music, he couldn't let go, instead finding himself even more inextricably entwined with her than he'd originally thought._

_After that, he'd sent her on her way, making her swear to return, which she never did, being caught up with that witless boy as she was._

-----

She padded quietly from her room, the lush carpet cradling the soles of her bare feet as she crept down the hall and knocked softly at the door at the far end, the one leading to Raoul's private sitting room.

The knock was answered promptly, but her presence took a split second more to register. His eyes growing wide, he ushered her in, glancing over her shoulder to make sure the pair of them were unobserved before shutting and locking the door.

"Christine, what are you doing here?" he asked as she made herself comfortable in an armchair by the lit fireplace.

She looked up at him as he approached. "I couldn't get to sleep."

He sat across from her in another armchair. "Another dream?"

"Yes."

Anger bubbled up in him for a moment; how long would it take before she could come to him without having to seek solace, an excuse to drive another from her thoughts? But the voice of reason swiftly asserted itself, pointing out that it wasn't her fault that she'd been so ruthlessly preyed upon, and that it was his duty to protect her, to ensure that it never happened again.

Giving a resigned sigh, he said, "Him again?"

"You sound angry."

The words tumbled out before he had the chance to restrain them. "Well, I should say so! Even in _death_ he still wields power over you—"

"I didn't come here to be _lectured_," she retorted, standing, trying her best to be genuinely outraged, but tears clamoring for purchase at her eyes.

In one swift movement, he caught her up in a warm embrace. "I know, Christine. It…it's just so hard…I always keep picturing the two of you that night, on stage…"

"Oh, God, Raoul, I'm so sorry…I should have done something, you never deserved—"

"Shhh…" he said, caressing her brown curls. "It's not your fault."

She looked up at him, her eyes shining with tears, her cheeks streaked with them, and she whispered, "Please…let me do something…"

He kissed her. "You can't make up for the past, Christine, just let it go."

"I can't," she breathed, kissing him back. "I can't let go; he won't let me…"

He brought her closer. "What can I do to help?"

She was silent for a while, and when she finally did answer, it was barely more than an exhale of breath. "Take me; please…make me completely yours."

"But…Christine, I can't do that; we should wait—"

She smiled at him. "We've waited long enough, don't you think?"

All he could do was to keep staring at her, powerless against her, before gently extricating himself from her embrace and retreating to the back of the room, unlocking a door, reluctantly beckoning for her to follow.

-----

_How many times had he sworn revenge, whispered it under his breath as he watched them, his heart tearing itself apart each time? And it had almost happened, too, but some inexplicable force of mercy, a random, ill-timed spurt of compassion had seen fit to intervene, and he'd set them free, only to be chased from his lair like a fox from its hole in some sick, twisted form of retribution and karma._

_But then…_

-----

Pure sensation flooded through her, quenching the carnal fires of her passion, sending her shuddering into the mattress below her as she repeatedly gasped one name aloud to herself and the surrounding darkness.

"_Erik…_"

-----

_But then…_

He stirred from his fitful sleep, drowsily whispering a name, her name, the name of the one person his subconscious musings had identified as the one he could finally be with, dark, so similar to himself, but not so dark as to not offer redemption, the promise of dusky, serene twilight:

"Meg."


	13. Chapter 13: Desiring Truth

**Hope you like!**

**Thanks to: Writer, Sarela (hopefully your bugging will pay off, haha), Maureen, phantomluver, and, of course, the readers! You guys rock.**

**disclaimer: I own nothing.

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**

chapter 13

Sunlight streamed in through the small window, playing across her weary features as she sat up slowly, groggily, running fingers through her hair. A faint, tangy sort of scent reached her nostrils as she drew her hand in close proximity with her face, recalling her thoughts, her actions, her passion of the previous night.

She leapt from the bed immediately, acutely aware of her body as she fixed the skirt of her nightgown that had remained bunched up around her waist as she slept and began righting the disgraceful tangle of blankets and sheets at the foot of the mattress. That done, her hands shaking, she entered the small bathroom branching off from the bedroom and made her way to the bath, running the water.

Shedding her nightgown, she stepped into the tub, gasping as she submerged herself in the chilly water; she'd take no more chances, not now, not with the memories still fresh in her mind…

_I should go to confession_, she thought, expending a huge amount of effort in order to expel him from her mind, wishing she could have the privilege of cleansing him from her body as well.

-----

About an hour later found her in the kitchen, boiling water for tea. On the way, she nearly tripped over the hem of the long, stern dress she had borrowed from her mother's closet; all of her own had been lost to the ravages of the Opera fire, along with much of her other possessions. Her mother had seen fit to rescue her ballet slippers, however, for which she was eternally grateful.

She was barefoot now, the tile of the kitchen cold and unyielding against her soles, and, while she waited for her water to boil, she decided to explore the small flat in which she and her mother now lived.

It was quaint, sparsely furnished, but that would change with time, she supposed; she knew her mother well enough to know that the cold, outer façade was really just that: a façade. Privately, Madame Giry was a very feminine, passionate woman, and her daughter was very similar to her in that respect.

She eventually wandered back into the kitchen, sitting down at the small table, a blank envelope lying next to her, and she picked it up, pulling out the note from the unsealed package.

_Meg,_ it read. _I believe I told you last night that I have found a post with one of the local ballet academies; this being the case, I will be working today, and I won't return until late. You're free to do what you wish with your day…I believe you and Christine have much catching up to do._

She smiled at the contents of the note, but set it down, at once being distracted with both the simultaneous whistle of the kettle on the stove and the clamor of the doorbell.

She ran to the door first, pulling it open, only to find Christine standing on the step. "Come in," she said quickly, then flying back into the kitchen, calling out, "Sorry, the kettle's about to boil over!"

"It's fine," Christine called back, closing the door softly behind her and making her way into the kitchen, watching Meg as she poured the steaming water into two cups, adding some leaves and setting both on the table, sitting down in the other unoccupied chair.

"What brings you here, Christine?"

She sighed deeply, and Meg noticed something…well, something _different_ about her…she wasn't sure just what exactly. "Meg, I…I feel so guilty, and yet…"

"Wait, slow down. What happened?"

She opened her mouth as if to answer, but promptly closed it again, looking around. "Your mother isn't here, is she?" she whispered.

"No, she's out working and won't be back 'til tonight."

Christine relaxed visibly, taking a sip of her tea. "Good."

Meg waited patiently for her to continue, but after a few moments of silence, she suspected that her friend would need a bit of help to return to her point. "So…what happened?"

"I don't know where to begin…so much has happened since I've last seen you, even though it was just last night…"

"Why don't you start from after I left with my mother last night?" she suggested.

Christine nodded, taking a deep breath. "After you and Madame Giry left, I went immediately to bed…but then I had a dream, and, oh, Meg, it was about _him_…"

"'Him'? You mean, the Opera Ghost?"

She nodded, her eyes wide. "Do you remember what I told you, about that night he took me?"

Meg fought to keep the sudden surge of jealousy down. "Yes," she said. "Every word."

"That's what I dreamt about."

"Then what happened?" asked Meg, eager to leave the present topic of discussion behind.

"I was so scared afterwards that I…oh, Meg, I went to Raoul, and…"

"And what?" she said, breathless.

Christine blushed, but the meaning of the action was not lost on Meg. "Are you serious?"

She nodded, looking ashamed. "It was all my fault, I told him—"

"It's not really something to be ashamed about, though, is it?"

"Oh, but, we were supposed to—Meg Giry, are you _smiling_ at me?"

"Grinning, actually, Christine. There _is_ a difference."

She sighed. "Well, no matter what you're doing, it's entirely inappropriate."

"What? Why? Because you didn't _wait_?"

"Yes, Meg, that's exactly what I'm trying to—"

"You guys are practically married, anyway," she muttered, downing the rest of her tea.

"_Meg_!"

"Well, you are…I mean…_living_ together…"

She sighed again. "Oh, Meg, you're hopeless…" She reached across the table to grasp her friend's hand. "But I missed you."

"I missed you, too, Christine," she said, though, while not exactly a lie, wasn't the whole truth, either.

-----

It took him a week to find her, but find her he did.

He waited, haunting the streets, biding his time until nightfall bathed this quarter of Paris—albeit one of the more quiet, respectable quarters—in blissful, ethereal darkness. Mist whipped about his ankles as he walked back to the small flat, letting himself in through the open kitchen window.

He landed, swift, catlike, on the tile of the immaculate kitchen area, making hardly a sound as he glanced around before treading quietly through the apartment towards the back, towards the bedrooms, where he knew she would be.

-----

It'd been a week since she'd returned, and her mother was out working again. Though glad to be back, part of her protested, and she often found herself battling within her mind.

_I've gone mad…these thoughts can't be healthy_, she repeated to herself, but the thoughts remained there just the same.

_I…I just wish things could have been…different._

_Different? What, instead of Christine, it had been you that that madman had been obsessed with?_

_Better me than she! She has so much to live for…a fiancé that loves her dearly, an amazing voice…_

_Stop with the façade; this selflessness is unbecoming. Besides, you yourself were jealous of her, not too long ago._

_But that was before…_

_Before what? Before Erik tried to kill you? Oh, yes, that's quite a healthy start to a relationship._

Frustrated, she cradled her skull in her hands, applying pressure to her temples, anything to drive the hateful dialogue from her mind…that, and Erik.

Dammit, why couldn't she get _over_ it already? Although she repeatedly degraded herself, she was a smart girl and realized she had just as much, if not more opportunity as Christine had. She would join a new company, climb the ranks and eventually become the prima ballerina her mother had always told her she would be, perhaps, if she were lucky, even find a wealthy patron to fall in love with and marry.

But, against all reason, she grew queasy at the thought. Before, when she was little, she often fantasized about what her life would be like, what her husband would be like, but she'd never managed to put a definite face to her "dream man". Now, though…whenever she thought about it, the only thing that filled her mind was Erik.

Imperfect though he was, he was _perfect_.

But he was long gone, probably out of the country by now.

With a sigh, she sat at her small, battered desk, pulled out some stationary and a pen, and began to write:

_Erik,_

_Though I doubt very much whether this will ever reach you, I hope this finds you well. I am at loss for words as to why exactly I am writing this letter, but I wish to tell you something that I know I've already said to you once before, but feel the need to repeat:_

_I love you._

-----

He stopped when he saw her, her hair a river of pure moonlight as she paced the floor. She sighed, then sat rather abruptly at a desk in the corner and began scribbling away at something.

He watched her, for the first time in his life feeling awkward about it. _That can't be a good sign_, he thought, and smirked.

Some unseen force must have alerted her to his presence, for she dropped the pen and stiffened. "Who's there?" she called, trying to seem imposing, he knew, but her voice was trembling.

"I knew there was a reason you chose dance over acting," he said, stepping from the shadows. She spun around to face him, and he continued, "That attempt at bravado could not have fooled anyone. Least of all me."

Her blue eyes were wide, but she did not look as if she were about to scream. "You came back," she murmured, stepping hesitantly towards him.

"Yes."

"But…but why? You were supposed to leave—Erik, you could have been killed—"

"Well, I haven't…unless, of course, you intend on raising the alarm on me right now."

Her expression hardened, defiant, bold. "I would never do a thing like that."

"'Never say never.'"

She smiled wickedly, moving steadily closer. "Well, I did. And what are you going to do about it?"

He raked his predatory glance over her, causing her to visibly shiver. "It doesn't look like I _can_ do anything about it, Meg," he replied, his voice a lulling whisper. He reached out, bringing his fingers of ice to her delicate cheek, something—not quite love, yet not quite lust—coursing through his veins. And then, as she slowly brought her lips to meet his, he thought of the correct term.

_Desire._


	14. Chapter 14: Thresholds

**"Gah! Finally!" That's probably what you're thinking right now, huh? You honestly have NO idea how difficult it was for me to write this chapter...besides all the -_ahem_- details, I had to resolve everything enough to gain a sense of closure, yet leave enough open ends for a sequel...**

**What? You didn't know there was a sequel to this? Oh. Well, my friends and faithful readers, I am happy to announce that there is, in fact, a sequel in the works. In fact, one more update (excluding this one, of course), and "Desire" shall be finished, making way for a little something I'd like to call "Devotion".**

**Anyway, I'll be sure to keep you all posted as to how everything is going with the next one.**

**Eternal thanks to: MJ, Maureen, phantomluver (I appreciate the complement, but you shouldn't degrade yourself so!), Writer, Virginie (wow, that was a lot of reviews, thank you), Nobody of Importance (thank you), Sarela (of course I forgive you...anything less would be positively monstrous), and PrincessSYS, the Valentine's Day reviewer! And the readers! You ALL make my day.**

**disclaimer: I own nothing.

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chapter 14

She had no idea what she was doing.

All she knew was that it was right.

She'd seen it happen often enough—what with the people she previously associated with, maturing and living in the Opera as she had—but never before had she actually experienced it for herself.

So, hoping to God that she wouldn't make a fool of herself, she brought her lips to his.

The first thing she registered was the cold; as cold, if not colder, than his fingertips against her cheek. It was a curious sensation, to be flushed with heat as she was, and yet held in such an icy grasp.

The thought gave her pause.

She pulled back, only slightly, but enough to gain his full attention. "Finally repulsed?" he spat bitterly, yet his expression, the very air about him, caused the stinging words to become sapped of their intended venom the moment they left his mouth.

"Stop talking like that," she snapped, just as harshly, just as vulnerable. "It's just that…well, you're so…_cold_."

He laughed mercilessly, pulling back and away from her altogether. "I would think that, by now, you would expect as much, Marguerite."

Puzzled, she looked at him for a split second, before erupting in anger. "Dammit, that's not what I meant! You complain and you mope…and for what? You _insist_ that no one loves you, that it is impossible _to_ love you, and you know what? You're right! You're absolutely right, because no one wants to love a miserable, self-pitying, _bastard_ of a wretch who drives people away on purpose, least of all me!"

His eyes were on fire as he looked at her. "Take it back," he whispered dangerously.

"Like hell I will!" she retorted, realizing it was unwise to goad him like this, but her frustration was just too much to be dealt with rationally. "God knows you need someone to tell you you're wrong—"

In two long strides he was in front of her, forcing her backwards until she met the wall. Painfully aware of the fact that a confrontation of this nature had already happened once before, he pinned her arms above her head, his thin fingers biting into the flesh of her wrists.

She writhed and struck out at him. "Get your filthy hands off of me, you fu—"

"Such language was not meant to issue from your mouth, little Meg—and, incidentally, you're right—so I suggest you _keep silent_," he said, instinctively pressing up against her to keep her still.

"Wh-what did you say?" she asked, her voice now a hoarse whisper.

"Just now, do you mean? Well, I believe I told you not to use profanity—"

"No," she said, shaking her head, rather dazed. "After that."

"Ah. I was agreeing with you." He let her go now, watched as her arms fell limply to her sides.

"On which premise?"

"About that fact that I'm a…oh, how did you put it? 'A miserable, self-pitying bastard,' if I'm correct."

She blushed. "Oh, Erik, I'm sorry—"

"Why are you apologizing? I've just confirmed your statement. And I believe you said, once, that you didn't back down in an argument…"

"Oh, God, you're hopeless," she exclaimed, before kissing him again.

It was different this, the second time. A burning, emotional insatiableness replaced the driven curiosity of before, and she succumbed to the symphony of her senses, reveling in his touch, his unique scent, the charged atmosphere surrounding his presence. She was rather taken aback when his tongue eventually sought entrance between her lips, but the shock quickly wore off, and she opened herself to him, truly tasting him for the first time.

He tasted very much like he smelt—and that was like subtle must and decay, like he truly was, as he repeatedly insisted, a corpse. And yet, beyond that was the infallible proof that he was a man, a bona fide, living human being, from the breaths he took every few moments, to the awe-filled exploration of her lips and tongue, the hands against her lower back, insistent, pressing her into him.

She wasn't quite sure when the transition occurred, but his ravaged lips eventually strayed from her mouth to her jaw, and even further to her neck, blazing a contrasting trail of ice on her warm skin. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, allowing him greater access, all the while reaching up and wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him even closer.

She lost herself to him, washed away in the intensity of his thrillingly frigid touch, until, without warning, he stopped. She opened her eyes to regard him—he looked rather self-conscious and unsure of himself all of a sudden—and realized with a start that the strict, unyielding neckline of her dress had stymied his progress. She met his eyes, held them, not bothering to disguise the want, the desire that he had ignited in her.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" he whispered, musical, yet strained.

"Yes," she breathed, and, taking one of his hands in her own, led him in the general direction of her bed.

They stood there, facing each other, in silence, comfortable, tense. She watched his features, the way the moonlight played on his face, the grace and pure musical rhythm of his breathing. "You're beautiful," she whispered, overwhelmed, bringing her hand to rest on his hollow cheek.

He smiled, seemingly amused. "As are you…infinitely more so," he replied, and kissed her, folding her into a gentle, demanding embrace.

After several minutes, Meg, overwhelmed, pulled him closer to the bed, but Erik, seeing the direction she was headed, balked, pulling her to the floor instead. Not expecting the sharp tug of resistance, she fell heavily on top of him, breathless and embarrassed. "Erik…" she began, apologetic, curious, and desperate all at once, but he stopped her, placing his hand over her mouth softly, before teasing it lazily down her neck and arm, lingering tantalizingly at the soft curve of her breast.

She gasped at the barely-felt contact, eyes seeing stars, all at once experiencing not only his hands on her, but the movements of his slim frame beneath her—

She bit back a small yelp of pain as part of her corset bit into her side due to the strange angle in which she was lying. She looked apologetically at him in response to his curious expression, pushing herself off of him to bring herself to a standing position, silently cursing the ill-timed interruption.

He got to his feet. "What's wrong?" he asked, hotly aware of the fact that Meg was unbuttoning her dress.

"My corset…it pinched me just now, I'm sorry…"

"I understand." He smirked. "Though, for the life of me, I've never been able to fathom why on earth women subjected themselves to such a torture."

She shrugged, stepping out of her dress. "You get used to it," she said, walking over to the side of her bed and laying the dress out on top of the mattress. That done, she began attacking the laces of her corset with a vengeance, all the while feeling his eyes on her, following each and every one of her movements in the dimly-lit room.

The godforsaken scrap of clothing was off in a few moments—tense moments filled only with the heavy breathing of the two souls—and soon she was standing, exposed, nothing but a thin linen chemise and a pair of pantalets protecting her virtue, such as it was.

She looked over at him, standing several paces away from her, bathed in shadow; his eyes seemed over-bright in their golden, glowing way, and she blushed. She approached him, slowly, noticing that he had removed his black evening jacket, and it rested in a dark puddle of fabric at his feet.

She reached out and brushed her fingertips lightly against his cheek, and he reacted like an electric shock or something very close to it passed through him. Startled, she drew her hand back, but he pulled her close to him, pressing her into him.

"It doesn't make sense," he murmured.

"What doesn't?" she asked, still very surprised at his actions.

"Everything. Why you're here, why _I'm_ here…something like this isn't supposed to happen to me; it defies logic."

She smiled, worming her hands up from where they had been trapped in his embrace and slowly beginning to unbutton his shirt. "I've noticed there's a point at which logic stops working and something else takes over…"

"What?" he said, pulling away a little and running his hands over her. "What takes over, Meg?"

She tilted her head back and closed her eyes for a moment, reveling in the sensations he was evoking in her, before helping him out of his shirt. "I have absolutely no idea."

All intellectual discussion ceased soon after that, their lips meeting in a passionate, heated embrace, matching each other measure for measure, articles of clothing tossed away haphazardly, hands groping blindly in the dark.

Several more minutes passed, both feeling very much like the only thing in the whole world that truly, deeply mattered was the act of abandoning themselves to each other, but Meg, determined to have the last say in circumstances, pulled him out of the darkness, away from the shadows and towards the center of the room, closer to the silent window leaking mists of mercury and moonlight.

They sank to the floor again, Meg's back resting fully against the firm surface, Erik above her. She could see him now, see him as he undoubtedly saw her in the darkness, each aspect of his body brought into sharp relief by the unyielding light from the window, only to be softened again by her lover's gaze. His skin was very pale—not the healthy, glowing sort of pale that was so often portrayed as the ultimate beauty, but the grey, sickly sort of pale, very much like a withered flower that had seen nothing but cloudy skies for nigh over a decade. This sickly look was only augmented by his impossibly slender arms and neck, and again, unbidden, the image of a corpse presented itself to her…quickly erased as he shifted his weight, bringing his mouth to rest against her chest, no, even further than that, resulting in the touch of his erect length against her inner thigh.

Acting purely on impulse, she snapped her legs together, tight, and she reveled in his low groan of pleasure as she cradled him, held him, illustrating for the first time to both him and herself just what sort of power she wielded.

He spoke her name in a hoarse, husky sort of tone she had never heard him use before, and she replied, quietly, "Yes, I understand." And she did, too. She understood the growing, unyielding pressure that had been steadily building within her, not just now, but over the course of the months that she'd spent with him, the years she'd known about him. She needed him, utterly, completely.

She released her hold on him, and he shifted again, expectant, poised, as she spread her legs a little wider and arched her back.

And in one swift movement that seemed to make all of time stand still as it would with the much-anticipated fulfillment of a hundred-thousand-year-old prophecy, Meg crossed the threshold from girlhood into womanhood.

She cried out, she couldn't help it. She'd heard the talk and had known what to expect, but she had honestly never once considered the fact that it could possibly hurt _this_ much…

"Meg, are you all right?" he asked, genuine concern radiating from him.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, really," she replied. She'd be damned if a little matter like this spoiled this moment for him.

He kissed her, took her lips with his. "Are you sure? We don't have to continue if you don't want to."

She shook her head violently. "Don't be absurd, Erik, of course I want this."

He sighed, remembering with sudden clarity just how stubborn the girl could be. Though the idea of him inflicting pain upon her in such an intimate manner repulsed him, she was adamant that he continue… "I'll try to be gentle," he whispered, and renewed his movements against her.

The pain she felt had faded to a dull, thudding ache while they talked, but his movements only served to renew it; it seemed that her body didn't give a damn whether or not she enjoyed this…

She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes but noticed that the hurt eventually grew to be less and less and less, allowing for the first small ripples of pleasure to wash over her; soon after that, she forgot about the pain altogether, reveling in the new, wondrous experience, soon inspired from her lethargy the pain had inflicted upon her into answering Erik's movements with her own.

Meg had been dancing her whole life. But never before had she danced quite like this.

They moved together, slowly at first, increasing tempo and rhythm in perfect sync with nature's music constantly swelling to a great crescendo from deep within them.

She lost herself. All perception, all sense of self-awareness, had evaporated, leaving only almost-unbearably-heightened sensation, only being, only him.

He came to crisis first, she immediately following, and she was shocked to discover an incredible warmth, a glow, coming from him and settling itself deep within her, flooding her being and completing her. It was the most amazing thing she had ever experienced, and she felt it, on her expression, in her body language, even reverberating from the depths of her very soul.

He relaxed, resting his full weight against her, burying his face in her neck. "Thank you," he murmured, his lips brushing lightly against her skin. "Thank you, thank you, thank you…"

She sighed, content, and closed her eyes, concentrating all of her available will-power on holding his now-soft form inside of her, but to no avail; he slipped out of her, at the same time rolling off of her and on the floor next to her. "Hold me," she whispered, and, to her surprise and delight, he did just that, scooting closer to her and enveloping her in his arms as they lay together in comfortable silence, broken only by their breathing.

He disentangled himself from her and stood after a few blissful moments, but she remained on the floor, basking in the warm afterglow of their lovemaking and the cold, impartial light of the moon, her eyes closed, her lips parted slightly, ruby red, a stark contrast to the milky-softness of her bare skin. "You look like Diana," he observed quietly, pausing for a moment in his quest to locate his trousers.

"Who?" she asked, nothing moving but her lips and her chest as she uttered the word.

"Diana…the goddess of the moon."

"Oh." She sat up, looked at him. "But, isn't she a virgin?"

His single, fluid movement of pulling on the aforementioned trousers split into two as he paused slightly, caught off-guard by her forwardness. "Venus, then," he amended.

"That's better." She smiled. "No one's ever called me a goddess before, you know."

"There's a first for everything," he said, stooping down to collect his shirt and pulling it on.

She stood, stretching, arching her back and throwing her arms over her head, exposing her naked breasts. "Tonight's full of firsts, isn't it? For both of us."

He looked up at her, previously consumed with buttoning his shirt, but quickly turned his head, thinking she would want some measure of privacy, and not have him ogling her. "Yes. I suppose so." He sat at the edge of the bed, staring at his feet, waiting until she got dressed to look up; this being the case, he was startled when the weight center of the mattress shifted, and he felt a lingering kiss on one of his horrific cheeks. He whipped his head around, met her eyes…she was sitting beside him, still naked, now resting her head against his shoulder. He looked at her, merely sitting there, content, and his heart swelled with wonder. How was it that she could be so comfortable with him? How was it that she could tolerate him, could bear to have him touch her…? "Meg?" he said, his voice a little hoarse.

"Yes?"

He kissed the top of her head. "Come away with me."

She moved away from him, grinning. "Hasn't that been the plan all along?"

"I don't know what you—"

She laughed, amused. "So I suppose you came back for no reason, then?"

"One should never jump to conclusions," he said stoically.

"Fine. Play coy." She made her way around the room, collecting her various items of clothing from off of the floor, but leaving the dress on the bed. "But I _have_ to go with you, no matter whether you want me to or not," she continued, disappearing into the adjoining bathroom he had failed to notice before then.

"Oh?" he called. "And why's that?"

For a moment, all he could hear was the sound of running water, but then: "I know your secret."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You admitted to being a miserable, self-serving bastard. You wouldn't want me spreading the word, now, would you?"

To this, he had no answer, except to mutter under his breath and continue getting dressed while Meg finished up in the bathroom.

She emerged, dressed once again in her chemise and corset, a hairbrush in her hand. She sat next to him on the bed once again, thoughtfully running the brush through her golden locks, and he said, "If you disappear again…won't they know where you've gone?"

She shook her head. "No, they wouldn't, considering _I_ don't even know where I'm going…"

"You know what I meant, Meg. They'd know who you went with, at least."

She shifted uncomfortably before setting her brush down, looking him straight in the eyes. "They wouldn't know anything, not unless I chose to tell them."

He looked at her, puzzled, and she continued, "I…I told them you had died."

He stood angrily, hurt and betrayal making itself known in every inch of his grisly visage. "How oddly appropriate…tell me, Meg, did you enjoy making love to a dead man?"

She stood as well, facing him. "Please, don't be that way…"

"And what other alternative is there?"

There were tears in her eyes as she said, "I was trying to protect you, Erik. If they'd thought you still alive, they might have sent the authorities out after you."

"And you told this lie completely on my behalf, thinking about nothing but my welfare?" he sneered, unbelieving.

"_Yes!_ Erik, please believe me—"

"Tell me, what other lies have you spun for me? I'm intrigued."

She stepped away from him, adopting his cold manner with surprising ease. "Nothing."

He blinked in surprise. "You told them everything else?"

"Everything."

"But…but _why_?"

She sighed, tentatively approaching him once more and seeking out his embrace. "Because I had to reassure myself that it wasn't all a dream," she whispered, burying her face against his chest.

"A nightmare, you mean."

She looked up at him, fire in her eyes. "No, that's _not_ what I mean. Honestly, Erik, have you learned nothing from just now?"

He held her close. "I'm sorry…it's just that…I'm not sure what to believe anymore."

"You'll figure it out, Erik, I have no doubt," she said. "You _are_ a genius, after all."

"'There's a fine line between genius and insanity,' Meg."

"We'll cross it together, then."

They stood like that for a while, until Erik pulled away slightly. "We should leave," he said in response to her inquiring glance. "What time did you say she'd return?"

"Who, my mother? I have no idea."

"All the more reason for our speedy departure. Are you ready?"

"One moment," she replied, and quickly snatched her dress from its resting place, putting it on and buttoning it back up. That done, she walked to her closet, taking out a small canvas duffel bag and packing some of her most prized possessions along with some essentials: her hairbrush and ribbons, a few sets of clean pantalets and stockings, a small wooden jewelry box her mother had given her when she was little, and her dancing shoes, among other things. Finally, she went to her writing desk, crumpled up a piece of stationary—probably the same she had been writing on when he had first come—and pulled out a clean sheet, quickly scribbling something on it before folding it in half twice and setting it back down on the desk. "I'm ready," she said, picking up her bag and turning to face him.

"You're absolutely sure about all of this? There's no turning back, once we leave this room."

"So somber," she remarked with a smile. "Yes, I'm sure. I wouldn't have given myself to you, had I not been."

"Very well," he replied, feeling somewhat pleased with himself. His expression softening a little as he looked at her, he continued, "But, I warn you, I cannot promise you a pleasant life."

"I understand."

He nodded, and made his way silently through the house, Meg on his heels. He paused by the front door, waiting for her to put on her shoes.

"Erik?"

He turned around to look at her in the darkness. "Yes?"

"I love you."


	15. Epilogue

**Here, my friends, is the closing of _Desire. _Let me tell you that working on this has been quite an adventure, made even better by all of you willing to read and review my work. As always, I offer thanks, but I promised to keep you updated on the progression of the sequel to this, so here it goes.**

**I'm not entirely sure when I'll have the first chapter posted...I haven't actually started writing it, but the ideas are there, just waiting to get out. I give it two weeks at the most before _Devotion_ is posted...perhaps I'll post an announcement on this one so the twenty or so of you that have this story on alert will be informed.**

**Anyway, thanks are due to: my lovely Hero Sis, phantomluver, mfcwic, E/MOTP, Writer, Lady Wen, Virginie, and L.G., as well as to all of you readers. You are the ones that make all my hard work worth it, so I thank you and tip my imaginary hat to you. Brava.**

**Thank you all so much! And, without further ado, here's the epilogue to _Desire_.**

**disclaimer: This story has come to it's official close, and I still don't own anything. There's something inheritely wrong with that...**

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* * *

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epilogue

She entered the flat silently, tucking the key away, dropping her bag in the foyer. She shuffled wearily into the parlour with the full intention of plopping down into the armchair by the cold fireplace and massaging her sore feet and hands, but thought better of it, making her way instead towards her daughter's bedroom.

She rapped softly on the door. "Meg?" she called gently.

Silence.

She knocked again. "Marguerite Giry, are you awake?"

Again, silence.

"I'm coming in," she said, and opened the door slowly, poking her head behind the door to peer into the room.

It was empty.

Well, not _empty_, exactly. The furniture was still there…in fact, everything was as it was this morning, before she left for work, except for a few minor differences, and the one glaring discrepancy: Meg was gone.

She didn't panic just yet; she could be anywhere…with Christine, perhaps, or with one of her other friends from the Opera…

A flutter of movement caught her attention, and she stepped fully into the room and turned her steely-grey eyes to look at the window in the wall opposite her. It was cracked open, letting a draft in, the breath of air dancing with the gauzy curtains and a folded piece of paper that lie on the battered writing desk nearby, pushing it to and fro.

She made her way towards it, stopping abruptly at the sight of a rather large, dark stain on the carpet. "What in the _world_…" she said, stooping to examine it and feeling a series of chills all throughout her—it looked suspiciously like blood.

She stood again, significantly more-panicked than before, but trying to keep her composure. She approached the desk, picking up the piece of paper and unfolding it with shaking hands, her eyes widening in commingled shock and horror as she read the contents.

-----

Her eyes flew open, a sense of foreboding coming to her, overwhelming in its strength and tenure. She sat up from where she'd been lying, looked around; Raoul hadn't come to bed yet. What could be keeping him?

Perplexed, she ran a hand through her unruly curls, quickly climbing out of bed, slipping into her dressing gown, and venturing out of the room and into the empty corridor.

She could hear voices coming from downstairs, and she sailed down the hall and staircase as fast as her feet could carry her, following the muffled sounds coming from one of the private sitting rooms.

"Raoul?" she asked softly, pushing open the door.

He looked up, surprised, anxious. He'd been stooping over something on the floor, but from her vantage point in the threshold she couldn't see what—or _who_. "Go back to bed," he mouthed at her, but she shook her head, resolutely stepping inside the room.

She almost wished she hadn't.

The words were stuck in her throat, cleaving, heaving, struggling to escape, to take flight and be given voice, but the effort was far too much. So she simply stared for a moment, taking in the scene around her, her mind numb and refusing to accept the only possibility this scenario presented; after all, one did not deserve to live through the same nightmare twice…

Madame Giry had seemingly collapsed on the floor, her frame heaving with sobs. Christine had never before seen anything more horrific; this woman was her mother figure, had been for years her source of strength and wisdom and comfort, and it seemed to Christine that her ordered world had transformed into a spinning vortex of confusion and anarchy as she watched.

She knelt and placed a comforting hand on one of the woman's shaking shoulders, keeping silent, but saying more than she ever could have hoped to communicate through the kind gesture. She kept her hand there, occasionally moving it back and forth, sometimes in small circular movements, attempting to calm her down.

The sobbing eventually quieted, and silence reigned for a moment, a moment in which Christine managed to rediscover her voice. "Tell me what's wrong, _Maman_," she said gently.

The request was met only with a resurgence of sobs, each more bitter than the last, but from underneath the crumpled figure a worn, firm hand snaked out, releasing its death-grip on a small piece of stationary paper.

Christine took the paper from her gently, and she could feel Raoul moving closer from where he'd retreated into the far corner as she looked down at it.

The handwriting was immediately familiar to her, which, considering the present circumstances, did not exactly bode well. But the sight of her name scrawled on one side caught her attention. _To Maman and Christine_, the paper read, bare on that side except for the neat script that had been Meg's trademark.

Taking a deep breath, feeling Raoul's hand on her shoulder, she flipped the paper over to read the rest of the note.

_I hope you both have it in your hearts to forgive me. Please know that I have just made one of the toughest decisions of my life, one that I realize will have many repercussions, possibly for the worse, but I beg your forgiveness, as well as God's, for I have sinned grievously in the past week since I have returned._

_Please don't forget me…I'll think of you both, always._

_My mind is filled with sorrow as I write this, not only for you, but someone else I've wronged in the process, someone I was only trying to protect. Please understand that I meant no malevolence…_

_I lied to you. _

_He lives still._

-----

Some say the world will end in fire,  
Some say in ice.  
From what I've tasted of desire  
I hold with those who favor fire.  
But if it had to perish twice,  
I think I know enough of hate  
To know that for destruction ice  
Is also great  
And would suffice.

— Robert Frost


	16. author's note

**PROLOGUE OF _DEVOTION_ UP!**

**Thank you all so much for reading…**

**Love always,**

**dark-hearted rose**


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